


An Unwelcome Sanctuary

by Alipeeps



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, hurt ichabod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:09:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alipeeps/pseuds/Alipeeps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The cellar was dark and dank, clogged with thick, twisted branches and smelling unpleasantly of mouldering damp and earth.  And he was not alone down here."</p><p>A pre-episode tag (based entirely on the promo and sneak peek scenes so will be made non-canon as soon as the ep airs! :D) to 1.09 Sanctuary, featuring Ichabod Crane vs the monster of the week. Ichabod whump and a teensy bit of fluff. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired pretty much completely by the "Families Intwined" promo scene released by Fox. It caused a huge amount of speculation on tumblr but the one thing I couldn't get out of my head was wondering how Ichabod's hair came to be so delicously tousled in the scene.
> 
> So... I had to write my take on it. :D And, of course, incorporate my eagle-eyed spotting of a) a tear in Ichabod's shirt in the sneaky clip from the edit room that Len Wiseman posted on Twitter and b) several stitched-up tears in his shirt in the "Families Intwined" scene. :)

He was not alone.

The cellar was dark and dank, clogged with thick, twisted branches and smelling unpleasantly of mouldering damp and earth. And he was not alone down here.

He peered into the gloom, unable to shake the uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades that told him he was being watched. Being stalked. His palms felt sweaty as he hefted the comforting weight of the axe.

What was that? A faint noise behind him had him spinning around. 

There it was again. A soft, slithering sound. A faint susurration as of branches rubbing against each other. A shiver ran down his spine.

A shadow moved in the corner of his eye and he spun again, the axe held out in front of him to ward off... ward off what? What manner of creature was he facing here?

It was too dark in here. He couldn’t see a damned thing. He looked down, fumbling for the flare that Abbie had pushed into his hands.

“Ah!” A shadow flashed by him again and sudden stinging pain flared across his shoulder. He instinctively pressed a hand to the area and felt a tear through the fabric of his shirt, his fingers coming away slick with fresh blood. 

He wiped his hand quickly on his trousers and again raised the axe in a two-handed grip, holding it across his body as he turned on the spot, peering into the darkness, his ears straining to catch any sound from his assailant.

There it was again. He spun towards the source of the unnerving, slithering sound, but could see nothing in the darkness. He reached again for the flare and this time managed to light it, holding it out in front of him as it fizzed and flared with a bright red glow. He held it aloft as he peered into the dark corners of the room but saw nothing but the thick, twisted roots and branches covering everything. The axe hung heavily in his other hand and, feeling the need to be ready for any attack, he quickly dropped the flare to the floor where it popped and crackled, casting dancing shadows across the foliage-choked walls as he settled his grip back on his only weapon.

The cellar room was small, claustrophic. The thick tangle of tree roots all around him seemed to writhe and move in the flickering red light of the flare. He spun around again, feeling as though something had moved behind him... but there was nothing there.

It was playing with him, he realised. Like a cat playing with a mouse... with its prey.

He waited for a long moment then spun around quickly, unexpectedly... and this time he definitely saw something, something that moved amongst the tangled branches, something that had... a face? And then it was gone.

Then, before he could react, it lunged out him out of the shadows, a blur of movement, of long twisted limbs reaching for him. He dodged aside instinctively, raising the axe to block the attack, and felt the sting of pain as sharp tendrils whipped across his arm. And then it was gone again, melting back into the shadows. 

He spun desperately, trying to see where the creature had gone. A noise behind him and it came for him again, and this time he saw it clearly. It was... it was as if the tree roots themselves had come alive, writhing together to form a vaguely human shape, its crude approximation of a face twisting into a silent snarl as tangled, knotty limbs reached for him. He swung the axe instinctively and felt it connect with a solid thud. There was a hissing, howling screech of rage that seemed to come not from the twisted figure itself but from all around and in the reddish glow of the flare the walls themselves seemed to move as the tree roots and branches writhed angrily.

The creature surged, ripping itself free of the axe, and swiped at him with razor sharp, tendril-like “fingers”. They sliced across his ribcage, the sharp pain making him gasp. He retaliated with another swing of the axe but the creature dodged aside. He raised the axe for another swing but stumbled as something caught hold of him, pulling him off balance. He looked down in horror to find a thick tree root wrapping itself around his waist, tugging at him, making him stumble backwards. More roots and branches writhed outwards from the walls, reaching for him, trying to curl themselves around him. He swung the axe desperately, trying to fight them off, but there were too many. The cellar room was alive with twisting, moving branches and inexorably they wrapped themselves around him, snaking around his waist, up across his chest, coiling around his legs, at once immobilising him and dragging him further into their grasp.

He found himself pinned against the wall, more and more branches flowing over him, writhing themselves around him. He strained desperately to free himself as more and more roots and branches wrapped themselves around his limbs, tangling in his hair, tightening around his chest, curling around his throat and squeezing.

He struggled to move, to breathe, but it was almost impossible. Dark spots danced before his eyes as the creature stalked towards him, its long, tangled limbs reaching for him. Wheezing desperately for breath he could think only of Miss Mills and hope that she and Miss Gilbert had managed to make good their escape. 

The creature snarled at him and raised its twisted arm for the killing blow... and with a last desperate surge of strength he swung the axe desperately upwards, ripping it free of the tangling knot of branches. The blade connected with a solid thud and the creature’s head was neatly severed, thrown through the air by the impact. For a long, eerily-familiar moment, the gnarled body swayed on its feet... then it slowly toppled as a howling, deafening shriek filled the room and every branch and root writhed and whipped furiously. 

He gasped and choked as the tendrils tightened convulsively around his throat. Blackness was starting to crowd in at the edges of his vision, his body starting to shut down as it was starved of air. The branches thrashed and pulled tighter around him; the death spasms of the vast, demonic entity.

And then it was over. The awful screeching sound died away, and the thrashing branches drooped and were still. The dreadful pressure around his throat eased a fraction and he sucked in a desperate breath.

After that everything went kind of foggy for a while and the next thing he was aware of was someone calling his name.

“Crane? Crane?!!”

It was Abbie... Miss Mills. He tried to call out to her but his throat was dry and scratchy and all that came out was a hoarse croak. 

“Crane!”

The cellar door creaked open, weak daylight flooding into the room. He heard footsteps on the creaking wooden stairs.

“Crane? Oh my god, Crane!”

She started pulling at the tangle of branches, wood creaking and snapping as she tried to free him. The pressure around his throat lessened and then was gone and suddenly he was coughing, gasping for air.

“Lieutenant...” His voice came out ragged and hoarse.

“Hold on a second. Almost got it.” 

She tore at the twisted branches, ripping them away from his chest, his arms, his legs. And then she was struggling to catch him as his knees gave way and he belatedly realised that the thick tangle of roots and branches had been the only thing keeping him on his feet. He slumped forwards, sharp tendrils catching at him, snagging in his hair, and fell to his hands and knees with a grunt.

“Are you okay?”

She knelt beside him, her steadying hand on his shoulder as he fought to catch his breath.

“I’m...” He coughed and tried again. “I’m fine.” 

He tried to push up to his feet, staggered, and found her steadying him once again.

“What happened?” she asked looking around. “Is that...?” 

She was gazing with a mixture of awe and repulsion at the twisted, gnarled body on the floor, the head lying some feet away, its face - if one could call it that - still fixed in a silent snarl. 

He nodded. “The demon,” he agreed. “Or its physical manifestation, in any case.”

“And you beheaded it?”

“Yes.”

She smiled up at him, a glint in her eye. “You’re starting to make a habit of this,” she teased.

He couldn’t help smiling back. “It seemed the most appropriate action at the time,” he offered.

Her smile widened. “C’mon,” she turned to the stairs. “Let’s get out of here.”

A sudden thought occurred to him; the reason they’d come to this house in the first place. “Miss Gilbert, is she...?”

“She’s fine. She’s outside in the car, out of harm’s way.” She turned to face him, and raised her fist, her smile turning impish. “You did it, Crane.”

“We did it,” he insisted, but performed the required gesture anyway, bumping his fist against hers, smiling at the moment of carefree delight the action caused in her.

“And thank you, Lieutenant,” he added as they emerged from the musty cellar.

“What for?”

“For coming back for me.”

She smiled as she pushed open the front doors, the bright sunlight making him squint after the darkness of the cellar.

“That’s what partners do, right?”


	2. Epilogue

Once he had become used to how the mechanism worked, balancing the flow of hot and cold water, he had come to very much appreciate the modern invention that was the shower, not least for its ease and immediacy. No more drawing and heating of repeated pails of water to fill a tub, one could simply turn a knob and have a cascade of hot water at one’s immediate disposal.

He’d been most grateful for that immediacy upon returning to the cabin. The battle with the thing in the cellar had left him dirtied and ragged, the smell of dank earth still clinging to his torn shirt. His hair had pulled partly loose from the leather strip he used to contain it and seemed to be full of twigs and thorns. He’d been aware that he must have presented a most dishevelled picture.

And so he had lit a fire in the grate and made good use of the cabin’s shower to first wash his shirt and his trousers, hanging them in front of the fire to dry whilst he then washed himself. The warm water had been delightful, washing away the grit and dirt of the cellar and soothing the chill that seemed to have settled into his muscles. He’d picked fragments of twigs and flecks of bark from his hair as he’d washed it and winced as he’d gingerly scrubbed clean the lines of bloodied scratches left by the creature’s whip-like tendrils. 

And now he sat quite contentedly in front of the roaring fire, in his now clean trousers and his coat - graciously relinquished by Miss Gilbert - methodically stitching the rips in his shirt. It was a soothing task, almost meditative, the firelight glinting on the needle as it dipped in and out of the fabric, pulling it together in a series of tiny, neat stitches. His hair hung loosely, still drying from the shower, as he bent over his task.

He pulled the last stitch tight and snapped off the thread, sitting back to admire his handiwork. It seemed 200 hundred years in a grave had dulled neither his skills nor his dexterity when it came to the soldier’s skill at maintaining his uniform in the field. Satisfied with his work, he shrugged a little stiffly out of his coat and redressed himself in his clean and mended shirt.

Feeling altogether more presentable, he slipped his coat back on and carefully doused the fire. Miss Mills had asked him to meet her at the archives when he had, as she had put it, finished “doing his thing”, by which he could only presume she meant rectifying the state of his attire. He tucked the strip of leather into his coat pocket as she shut the cabin door behind him; his hair would dry on the way.


End file.
